Heavy Artillery

So many young people between the prime recruiting ages of 17 and 24 cannot meet minimum standards that a group of retired military leaders is calling for more investment in early childhood education to combat the insidious effects of junk food and inadequate education. “We’ve never had this problem of young people being obese like we have today,” said Gen. John Shalikashvili, former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He calls the rising number of youth unfit for duty a matter of national security.—Sphere.com.

The enemy had gathered in a small copse upstream from our location. The decision was made to engage them in force. The assault would require a direct approach along the river, the only significant obstacle to attack being a small hillock approximately a hundred metres from our location. Sergeant Chandler led the way. Ames, Elder, Leonard, and Tracker followed, with Parker and me bringing up the heavy machine gun at the rear. The day was dry and clear.

Immediately upon leaving our position, we came under heavy enemy fire. Almost at once, Private Ames grew red in the face. Private Elder took Ames’s pack. But the pack was heavy, and Elder soon reported that his back was spasming. Also, his calves were burning. Elder joined Ames behind a small boulder, where the two men shared a Diet Coke.

Refreshed, Elder and Ames started back up the hill. Almost immediately, Ames again became tired. Even more tired than before. And Elder’s back was feeling worse. Also, he had this rash under one arm—where the arm flab hits the torso? And that was acting up. What with all the marching and so forth. Meanwhile, Privates Leonard and Tracker continued up the hill. Until, that is, Private Leonard’s trousers began to chafe. While tight in the thighs and the rear, they were somehow slipping down in back. It was super-annoying. His back was all sweaty. He sat, a few metres away from where Elder and Ames still were not feeling quite up to snuff. Tracker continued alone up the hill, with Parker and me laying down covering fire from below. Soon, Tracker was just a few metres from the hilltop. It wasn’t actually all that big a hill, to tell the truth. More like a mild rise. Sergeant Chandler reached out his hand, as if to haul Tracker up. But, holding up one finger, Tracker paused, indicating: Wait a sec. Panting, Tracker bent at the waist, then dropped to one knee, then sat. His feet really killed, he shouted back at us. Sitting splay-legged, he used his helmet to fan his face. Tracker motioned that Elder should throw him the Diet Coke, so he could pour it over his head. Elder gestured: No way, we’re still thirsty—why didn’t you bring your own?

Soon, Elder and Ames felt strong enough to continue. But not for long. They sat back down, then fell over on their backs. It was nice looking up at the sky. A guy could almost catch his breath. Although it was pretty hard to rest with Sergeant Chandler yelling like that from the hilltop. They got up again. Elder had to haul Ames to his feet. But Ames weighed a ton, and ended up pulling Elder down on top of him. At this time, the heavy firing from the enemy position abated, replaced by what sounded like hoots of braying laughter.

Elder requested that Ames at least carry his own stupid backpack. Ames made a low groan. Elder responded by saying it was only fair, since he, Elder, had to carry the Diet Coke. Ames asked since when was a half-full Diet Coke as heavy as a full backpack? Plus, why did Elder feel the need to hog the whole Diet Coke? Elder asserted that he wasn’t hogging it, he was just carrying it, was all. Ames had reason to suspect Elder, who had once eaten four boxes of Raisinets in one sitting. And they weren’t even his Raisinets. They were just left over from this Halloween care package, meant for whomever. But Elder had totally claimed those Raisinets, and none of the men had ever really forgotten it.

Resolving to put their differences aside, the men proceeded a few metres up the hill. Walking uphill was a lot harder than walking on a flat dealie. Ugh. It was like being on a StairMaster. Or so they had heard. Sitting down again, Ames began digging through his pack for some Twizzlers. Luckily, he found some Pringles. And they were new Pringles, so when he opened the can it would make that freshness-insuring noise Pringles made. Although it would be hard to hear, what with the shooting and all.

From his position at the top of the hill, Sergeant Chandler motioned for Parker and me to discontinue the covering fire and join him. We advanced up the hill by walking wearily in one direction, then wearily in the other, doing this kind of serpentine thing, making basically no progress whatsoever. Because, the thing was, when we tried to walk straight uphill? It was pretty much undoable. That mild rise was a lot steeper than it looked. Finally, we just gave up. No one could blame us. Going up that hill was just—wow—forget about it. We joined Elder, Ames, Leonard, and Tracker beneath a small tree. It was sweet to not be walking anymore. Parker had some Dentyne Ice. I still had part of my Twinkie from lunch. Tracker had some Doritos, although it was mostly just crumbs at the bottom of the bag. Still, one thing we’d learned in the Army: those crumbs often have a more concentrated Doritos flavor. Elder found some Fruit Roll-Ups and a Sprite in his pack. How had he got all that extra room in there? we wanted to know. Easy, he said—just leave your hand grenades back at the base. We all high-fived Elder, hopeful that he might divide the Fruit Roll-Ups into equal portions.

Just then, Sergeant Chandler came charging down the hill. What in the hell were we doing? he demanded. The enemy was right there, on the other side, waiting to be engaged. Were we afraid? Were we cowards?

We were not afraid. We were not cowards. Well, maybe a little. But mostly we were just so tired. Also starving. Plus, like I said, several of us were chafing. Our faces were red and our hair was sticking straight up. I guess it’s true what they say about war being hell.

Just then, the enemy appeared at the top of the hill. There followed a moment of stunned silence. Except Elder and Leonard were kind of mouth-breathing. And Tracker had his nose-whistle thing going on.

They swooped down upon us, so thin and quick on their feet, and soon we had all been taken prisoner. Except for the Sergeant. He just took off like a shot. We were like: Where does that emaciated old dude get all that energy? So that sucked. Especially because all they gave us to eat was like vegetables or fruits or whatever. There was this bean paste, and also some soup, I guess it was? Just all this weird-ass food. And they didn’t give you very much, either. Extremely small portions. And when I requested some Sno-Caps they gave me this blank look, like, Uh, sorry, we do not even know the name of Sno-Caps in this country.

So much for the Geneva Conventions.

Anyway, the mission was a total disaster. Honestly, we should’ve just stayed back at the base. Especially since that night was supposed to be Taco Night.

I for one will be so glad when this crazy war is over. ♦

George Saunders has published over twenty short stories and numerous Shouts & Murmurs in The New Yorker since first appearing in the magazine, in 1992.